


Earthly Attachments

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e04 Falling Darkness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:06:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1865673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He says ‘Morse’.  Is that a name?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earthly Attachments

They leave Laura at the hospital with the surviving members of her university house-share and go back to the office to finish up. Another body in the morgue, an officer down and Charlotte as wild as a caged alley cat. At the end of it Hathaway says ‘pub?’ and Lewis says he’ll meet him later.

Van Tessel shivers when Lewis comes in, as if he has brought down the temperature in her dressing room. She doesn’t say, ‘you carry the dead with you, they hang off you.’ Perhaps she doesn’t want to frighten him. Neither does she remind him that he has suggested she is a fraud on more than one occasion, implied her involvement in murder on another. She has an air of professional sympathy; one he has been known to adopt himself. 

The room is small; it is store room, cleaner’s cupboard and boiler room but there are two chairs and they sit side by side. She had been getting ready for tonight’s readings; a case of makeup, a paperback, a sandwich in a triangular box. He had been expecting bell, book and candle, a stick of incense at the very least. Outside the mist has fallen again and damp, brittle November seeps in.

She asks if she can take Lewis’ hand. “If it’s not uncomfortable, it does help.” Immediately the room is filled with the scent of Val’s perfume.

“She’s here?”

“Valerie. She’s very faint, she’s fading.” 

He tightens his grip. “Why?”

“She says she’s sorry not to have had a chance to say goodbye. She says she hates to see you lonely, there’s no need for it. She says she liked the orchids, she has them still.” It is his turn to shiver.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see her anymore. Sometimes the pull of earthly attachments is strong, sometimes it’s harder for them.” He can’t conceal his disappointment. “Is there anyone else you would like to contact? There are so many here.”

Should he have prepared questions? What do you ask of the dead? Where were you on the night of the twelfth? Where were you when I needed you? 

“Well, me mam, me dad?” 

“I’m getting - there’s a man here,” Van Tessel says. “Not family but he’s a strong presence. He says ‘Morse’. Is that a name? Do you recognise it?”

“It rings a distant bell.”

“He’s showing me the Times crossword. I can hear - is it Mahler? Excuse me, Berlioz. He says he left a clue for you when you first came back to Oxford from your time overseas. A clue in a crossword.”

Lewis’ world momentarily tips up. The scent of perfume has faded, replaced by tobacco, stale beer, cheese and onion. How pubs used to smell. It is all barely there; he could convince himself it is suggestion and imagination. By the time he gets back outside he probably will have. 

“He’s saying the name ‘Monkford’. He says he put the lad on to him.” Lewis can’t help but laugh. He had thought his sergeant’s instincts bordered on supernatural in that case.

Van Tessel is clearly enjoying this conversation with Inspector Morse and he can almost hear him through her; that mellifluous tone he sometimes used with women. 

“He says you’ve done well and he’s proud of you. He’s taking credit for that too. He says you’re going back to the women’s college. To do the job properly this time. Does that make sense?”

“Lady Matilda’s?” 

“He says ‘be careful with that case’.” She closes her eyes. “He’s showing me snow blowing across steel and concrete. Snow and fire, a woman, oh, a woman in the flames. Your sergeant, he’s holding your arm. Morse says ‘watch your step, the pair of you’.” 

Another death he won’t be able to prevent, another sight they won’t be able to un-see. He should get back to Hathaway. Make sure his lighter hand has stopped shaking since he pulled Laura alive from a shallow grave.

“Morse says ‘it’s time to let Val go’.”

“That certainly seems to be the consensus.”

“He says - my goodness, he speaks his mind this one.”

“Go on, I’m used to it.”

“He says, the lad’s a bit young for you but he loves you.”

“What’s this?”

“He says ‘don’t act innocent, you old devil,’. He’s a real character, isn’t he?”

It sounds like him all right; ascribing extreme motivations to Lewis to get a rise out of him, occasionally hitting the nail square on the head. 

“He says ‘get the drinks in, Lewis. Have one for me.’”

She seems to alter her focus as the session comes to an end, looking at him as if she sees him clearly for the first time, relinquishing his hand with care. “I’m sorry, I need to rest a bit before I go on.”

“Thank you for meeting me. About before, I ought to apologise.”

She waves away the apology. “Will you stay for the readings?”

“No, thank you. I’ve someone waiting for me.” 

“Of course.”

“Sergeant Hathaway, in fact,” he feels the need to say. “He who loomed large in my reading.”

She gives a rueful smile, “You had better go, then. I don’t want to make a habit of getting on the wrong side of your sergeant.” She stands to see him out. “I hope you weren’t offended, Inspector. The dead aren’t always right, though they think they are.”

“Maybe so, but Morse generally is.”

When he gets outside he finds Oxford disappearing into the mists. It will be hiding it’s crimes again tonight; from the CCTV, from the students taking unwise shortcuts along the towpath, from the dog walkers and joggers. Suspects will depart crime scenes unobserved and last breaths will be taken alone. They’ll just have to sort it all out in the morning, he and his sergeant.

He finds him outside the pub, cigarette between thumb and forefinger, his tie loosened. “Hello, sir,” he says eyeing him curiously.

Somewhere not far away a battery of fireworks, the opening volley of dawning Guy Fawkes night, punctures the air and almost the only thing left to see is Hathaway taking the last draw of his cigarette and crushing it out. 

Lewis rests his hand on Hathaway’s arm. Who looks at it then meets his gaze. Lewis’ open palm travels the length of his sleeve; good quality wool prickling with damp from the heavy air. Hathaway, who is always quick to comprehend, offers his hand, Lewis holds it, finds it warm and unexpectedly yielding to touch, finds it beloved.

Conscious of invisible observers, the question is silently asked. And answered with slow, astonished acknowledgement. He turns for home, back through the vanishing night and Hathaway, recovering himself, goes with him.

End

 

June 2014


End file.
